Finding My Utopia
Frustration flows through my veins as my sister has once again accomplished invading my privacy. “Aggg!” I growled towards my sister to make evident the disappointment I was feeling. I am three and a half years in my sister’s senior. Living in a house which was old enough to participate in the original “little house on the prairie”; I desperately wanted my own bedroom away from my sister’s grubby little fingers.
I would always receive lectures from my mother how I was the “oldest” and that I knew better than to fight with my sister. On the contrary, it was my sister who instigated my arousal of emotions. I remember, while partaking in a past thanksgiving dinner, a conversation that reflected on an incident involving my sister and I. Large family dinners tend to bring about topics about situations in the past; whether the situations at hand were funny, sad, exciting, or embarrassing. This particular situation reflected on, yet paralleled, the emotions I still felt to that day. The story goes as follows, One day when my mother, sister, my new born baby brother, and I were doing some local grocery shopping, I desperately begged my mother for a new pet. My mother replied back to my childish demand by stating the only way we could afford a pet is if we were to get rid of one of us kids. While waiting in the checkout line at the grocery store, I noticed an older man dressed in a business suit. At the ripe age of four, I observed my window of opportunity to successfully fulfill the requirements to obtain the pet I desperately wanted. In my mother’s words, [she stated the following] “I turned around to notice Dezi tugging on the man’s jacket. Before I had a chance to bring her back to the shopping cart, I heard her ask the man if he would take her sissy. She told the man that if she found a new home for her sissy then she could have a new pet!”
After my mother apologized to the man she brought me back over to the shopping cart where I waited for my mother to pay for the items that she had selected. While climbing into the car, my mother asked me why I wanted to get rid of my sister, why not my little brother? I replied as the innocent four year old little girl I was, “Because sissy gets into my things, and buba does not.” Little did I know, for the rest of my adolescent years, my feelings would remain the same towards my little sister.
There have been times in which I can reflect on, where I would spend increasingly amount of time cleaning my sister’s and my bedroom. Just to have her drag out all of the toys that I had just spent time placing in their appropriate places. When my mother would come to inspect the cleanliness of the room, I would find myself in an argument with my sister who would claim that I was the one who “trashed” the room she just cleaned. Since I was the older one, I was the one who received the lecture on what is right and what is wrong. Only if I had my own room, I then could relax in the tranquility and the ability to isolate myself from my siblings.
Although I enjoyed the childhood memories this house, in which I shared a room with my sister, offered; I was very excited when my mother gave my siblings and I the news of her finding a new house for us to make a home. After living in our new house for a year, I begged my mom for the approval to transform the playroom in the basement into my bedroom. My argument stressed on the point that my siblings and I, for the most part, have outgrown the uses of a playroom. After giving a persuasive argument after another, my mother finally agreed to allow me to make this transformation.
At last, I have my own room! I can still remember the musty smell to the basement that was actually quite comforting. I have my own domain in which I do not have to share. I constantly allowed the “boom box” I received for my thirteenth birthday to play my favorite radio station. I painted the cement block walls a bright blue; I painted clouds, butterflies, and even painted green blades of grass at the bottom of the walls. Not only did I have my own bedroom, but I had my own childhood utopia. About a year after my transformation of the playroom into my bedroom, I left for my two week visitation with my father. Due to the fact that my father lived over an hour away, when I received news about the flooding in my mother’s neighborhood, I assumed that my mother or siblings would take the incentive to make sure my room stayed in good standing. Unfortunately, when I came home, I found about three inches of water completely swallowing my bedroom, my utopia. Not only was I unable to sleep in my own bedroom, but the violin my grandmother gave me as a sixth-grade graduation gift, would have received the most damage to the point the life of this item would cease to exist any longer. My bedroom was not a great utopia that I had once imagined. It was now a room in which turned into a substitute for my sister. It was now a room I could no longer put faith into keeping my items safe.
Approximately three years of having my own bedroom, I would find myself once again sharing a room with my sister. Thankfully because of my age at this time and my recent enlistment into the United States Army, sharing a room this time around, was very short lived. Excited to be on my own, for the most part, I found myself sharing a room with seven to twenty other strangers. This situation was then followed by me having a roommate in the military barracks in which I lived at my European duty station. Every move that I went on with the military led to multiple people in my living arrangement; along with every deployment I endured as well. So although I hated sharing a room with my sister, she gave me great practice in what I could and would endure in the years to come. Still to this day, I do not have my own room. I share it with my husband of five years, and at times with two toddlers. At least when I was younger I had my own bed!
A dusting of my past
- My name is Dezarae’. i am originally from Hutchinson, Kansas. i joined the military at 17 served 4 1/2 years. The military itself was not bad, but i delt with alot concerning people in the military. I taught myself to crochet when i was twelve, havent done much until late 2008. When i crochet and knit it makes me feel like i belong to something. Its the one thing in my life that i can fix if i mess it up. I am working on slowly starting up a business which will be called Making Traditions. Making Traditions is a store for all ages and all sexes. You can learn anything from needlepoint, spinning fibers, crochet, knitting, canning, cooking, baking, vegetable gardening tips, sewing, Quilting, preserving, and freezing. Along with being a one stop shop for all these categories. The motto of my business is “making yesterday’s talents, today’s traditions”. My goal is to find a link between the past and the present to bring families of all generations together. while also providing skills which will come in handy for the rest of one’s life.